A Bold Move Indeed
by Ray Travis
Summary: Holmes has never been known for being brash, but......


I awoke from sleep startled, and believed that the pounding I had heard, was the product of a nightmare. However, after a moment, the alarming sound repeated itself. Someone was resolutely knocking at the rear entrance. My wife stirred in her sleep and awoke. "Who could it be at this hour?"She exclaimed.  
  
"I will see darling. Please go back to sleep." I responded in my most reassuring tone. I rose from the bed and retrieved my robe from the door. I placed it on as I moved swiftly down the stairs and toward the service entrance from which the knock emanated. I opened the door cautiously; uncertain of what this foreboding sound brought with it.  
  
Once the door was open, I was tremendously relieved to see what brought this midnight rousing. I found a boy, no more than ten, staring up at me apologetically. He began, "Beggin yu padon Guvna. A man on Baker Street offered me a coupla coppas to bring you this note." He handed me a letter from the folds in his jacket. The lad did a fine job of sealing it from the rainstorm that had relentlessly poured on London over the past week. The boy was soaked to the bone, and I marveled that he had kept the letter so dry. I looked over his urchin-like appearance, and asked if he would like to come by the fire for a moment. He responded with a mock salute and ran off into the rain. I often wondered how Holmes came to know some of the people in his employ, and I imagined that they wondered the same of me.  
  
I closed the door and lit an oil lamp in the sitting room, adjacent to the door. The letter was addressed to Dr James Watson. I opened the seal and read what follows:  
  
Watson,  
  
Please send my apologies to Mrs. Watson for the lateness of the hour. However, our services are needed at once. I had to use the boy, rather than a standard delivery service, as I am presently on the move. I will meet you at 1:30 on the corner of Chester and Wapping. Please bring your revolver.  
  
  
  
H.  
  
It was the last line of the letter that I found most disconcerting. Holmes had directed me to bring my revolver on several occasions, and in itself, this was nothing remarkable. However, it was the "Please" that troubled me. Holmes gave directives not requests. This courtesy disturbed me deeply, for it held desperation to it. Holmes was never desperate.  
  
I moved up the stairs quickly, as I glanced at my watch. It was half- past midnight, and I possessed little time to reach our meeting point. My wife, inobedient as ever, rose from the bed as I entered our chamber. "Where are you off to at this late hour?" She demanded with an air of disgust; she no doubt already knew that this involved Holmes.  
  
"Dear, you must understand that my duties, as a servant of the crown, require my being available at any moment." She did not seem impressed.  
  
"Servant of the crown." She repeated sarcastically. "This no doubt involves your detective friend."  
  
"Sherlock Dear. His name is Sherlock, as you very well know. And he sends his regards, as well as his apologies for waking you."  
  
She looked at me with an absent-minded wave of her hand. "I find such mannerisms empty if they involve no action. He seems to have no issue with pulling you out of bed at this dreadful hour, and I should prefer that he keep his apologies to himself while leaving you in bed." I finished dressing and hoped she did not see me tuck my revolver into my overcoat pocket.  
  
"Understanding as ever my dear." I kissed her on the cheek and moved towards the door.  
  
"James." She said with concern.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I should hope you will not need that revolver tonight."  
  
"I hope not as well Darling. Get some rest." I looked upon her soft features, and echoed her concerns in my mind. I could not bear the thought of death robbing me of her company. I blew her a kiss and moved into the night.  
  
It was quarter to one, and I possessed little time to hail a cab. Still, buggy drivers at that ungodly hour were difficult to obtain. It took me twenty minutes of wandering before I was able to find a bloke, with no sense of time, who was willing to take me to my meeting. I settled into the cab, and I was grateful to be out of the rain. However, my heart raced-as it always did on the beginning of a case. My thoughts of returning to my wife and bedchamber faded, as I longed for another grand adventure.  
  
We reached the corner of Chester and Wapping at 1:25 am. I was five minutes early, and I doubted that my companion would acknowledge the efforts that I had taken to be prompt. The rain refused to let up, and I huddled under a doorway. Seven minutes passed, and I began to worry. Holmes was rarely late. The desperation I noticed in his letter began to play in my mind, and I began to fear the worst, as five more minutes had passed.  
  
To make matters worse, a drunkard had taken shelter in a doorway near mine. The man continued to rant incoherently. I knew that this area of London was known for its' lesser sorts, but this man seemed obviously insane. After five more minutes had passed, I made up my mind to return to Baker Street. Once there, I could inquire after Holmes whereabouts.  
  
As I moved from the door to the street. The drunkard continued to follow me, ranting fiercely. I believed that this was about to move to a head. Still, I had no choice but to continue towards Baker Street and my friend. I became concerned as I was forced to cross an area that afforded me little light. I pressed on. As the light faded behind me, I heard the drunkard's voice grow louder. I heard his footsteps become more rapid, until I sensed that he was directly behind me. I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder.  
  
"I don't think this is the time for panic, Old Boy." It was Holmes voice, but in his outfit he was wholly unrecognizable.  
  
"Blast it Holmes! Why didn't you identify yourself sooner?"  
  
"I had to be certain that you were not followed."  
  
"Well you just about scared the life from me."  
  
"Couldn't be helped Watson." My heartbeat slowed, and I calmed down in order to face the numerous questions blazing through my mind.  
  
"Why all the deception? Is your life in peril?" I asked.  
  
"I'm afraid so Watson. It would seem that a dangerous man would prefer to insure that I am gone before he hatches his best laid plans."  
  
"Who is this villain?"  
  
"His identity is what we must ascertain, my friend."  
  
I shook the rain from my hat and gathered my wits. "I am far too wet and confused to go much further without an explanation."  
  
"In due time my friend. Let us find more dry quarters." I allowed these mysterious circumstances to continue, as I had absolute trust in my colleague. Holmes spoke no more as I followed him to a dark pub near the waterfront. He stopped at the doorway and moved underneath the awning. "I suspect that the man who wishes me dead is in this establishment."  
  
"Upon my word, Old Boy." I was shocked. I knew that Holmes was not the reckless type, but this seemed a brash move indeed. "Please give me an explanation, if time allows." I imagine that I sounded desperate in those moments, because Holmes immediately began to relay our situation.  
  
"I shall start from the beginning, as it is a short story." Holmes wiped a raindrop from his eye and continued. "Five hours ago I was enjoying a quiet evening in the comfort of my home, when I received a telegram from a Mister Alex Crawford. He claimed that he was the victim of a criminal conspiracy to frame him, and he pleaded for my assistance. He asked me to meet him in Trafalgar square.  
  
I moved quickly."  
  
"Does that not seem impetuous to you. We have made a number of enemies over the years." Of course, I knew that Holmes was never impetuous. However, this was the custom of our relationship. He spoke in a code that only I understood and my seemingly inane questions were for both our benefits. He would analyze in his exposition and my role would become clear within his explanation.  
  
"Not at all. On the contrary, I was positive that this was a net that was meant to ensnare me." I looked at him with an air of disbelief. "In his letter, Crawford claimed to have been framed for the murder of a woman named Anita Wilson. He alleged that this Ms. Wilson was a prostitute living near here on the waterfront. He stated that he was near this place getting a drink in the late evening when Ms. Wilson's body was found. Crawford is an attorney that represents some of the wealthiest defendants in the city, and investigators found a calling card with his business address on her person.  
  
"Is this Crawford the one that we're after?"  
  
"I'm afraid not Old Boy. The real perpetrator is far more dangerous prey. Crawford is merely a pawn in a much larger game."  
  
"What kind of depraved individual would attempt such a malicious plan."  
  
"The identity of that individual is precisely what we are here to ascertain, my dear Watson. And, I am afraid that we have lingered too long already. You must enter the bar and wait for me to flush the attacker into the open."  
  
"But, Holmes.."I protested.  
  
"Time is of the essence. Enter the bar and pass yourself off as a patron, looking for a lady of the evening."  
  
"I dare say." Such an activity, even in Holmes service, was hardly the behavior of a gentleman.  
  
"Damn your pride Man." Holmes seemed truly distressed, and I feared to speak of this matter any further. Now, was the time for action, and my friend required my help. He calmed quickly and gave me my final instructions. "Now then, it is most important that you do not acknowledge me in any way, shape, or form. I will need you to lie in wait, until this fiend shows himself. Do you understand?"  
  
I nodded in response and entered the bar. The place was the type found in the most lurid fictitious stories. There were three tables: miscreants occupied all of them. At the counter, two sailors sat, barely holding their heads above their drinks. Everyone in the establishment looked at me when I came in the door. They looked at me as animals do in the wild, deciding whether I was predator or prey. I found an open seat at the counter and attempted to get the bartenders attention.  
  
"Sir. Sir, I would like a brandy." The bartender did not even turn around. He was a surly looking man, with dark swarthy hair meted around his hefty features. "Sir, a brandy if you please." He finally turned towards me.  
  
"If you want a brandy, I suggest you head towards Buckingham. We only serve pints here."  
  
"Then I should like a pint." He grumbled something incoherent in response and fetched a glass to fill with beer. I was proud of my composure. Holmes did most of our undercover work. And, despite the danger of our predicament, the novelty of the situation did not escape me. I became more sure of myself as the barkeep set the ale in front of me. "I would like to find the company of a lady."  
  
The barkeep laughed. "Again you came to wrong place. No ladies on this side of town, only dregs."  
  
I let it be at that. He and everyone else in the bar had heard my inquiry. My cover story was firmly in place. Now, I could sip the ale and wait for Holmes to move his next piece. I did not wait long.  
  
Holmes entered the bar in his disguise and began screaming at the top of his lungs: "HOLMES, HOLMES, HOLMES!" I sat upright and slipped my hand into my pocket, containing the pistol. I had to restrain myself from grabbing him and running all the way back to Baker Street. I was aghast. Yet, he continued: "DAMN THAT HOLMES. DAMN HIS EYES!" Everyone in the bar was staring at him, but no one moved.  
  
Finally, A filthy man seated at one of the tables spoke up. "Here now, what's all this talk about Holmes. We don't like it much when blokes mention his name around here. He's a devil. He is. And when you speaks the name of the devil he jes' might appear."  
  
I was terrified, but Holmes walked directly toward the man and spoke a bit softer. "Yer' right about him bein' the devil. He's everywhere. Me chums and me hit a bank, We did. But the devil he hears about it, and shows up. Him and that dull-witted piss-boy of his." I thought that Holmes actually smiled at me as he said that, but I was too scared to be offended. "Yeah, they shows up and nabs me chums. I gets away, and now I can't walks in public without his devil voice in me head."  
  
The filthy man at the table laughed. "Grab yerself a pint, and join the club. That fiend has nabbed more of me chums than death 'emself. But he won't gets me; I know how he does it."  
  
Holmes grabbed his head and scoffed: "Blimey! How does he do it?"  
  
The filthy man leaned close to Holmes, as if he were sharing privileged information. "It's sorcery it is." The man waited for his remark to set in, and looked around the room to make sure that no one laughed. No one did, although I should note that I had to stifle a chuckle. When he was sure that he was being taken seriously, he continued: "Yeah, that's right sorcery. He found some kind of ball in the mountains. It lets him see everything. He's probably looking at it right now. Watching us 'ere in the pub. Waiting for one of us to step out. Then he'll strike. Send us into the nether-realm."  
  
"Nether-realm?" Holmes inquired.  
  
"Yeah, nether-realm. It's where he sends all of his enemies. Once you're in there, there is no escape. You're tortured for eternity. And he just watches you with his magic ball. Laughing the whole time you're in there." The filthy man's fancies hung in the air for a moment, and I again had to surpress a chuckle, as I saw several of the pub's miscreants shudder.  
  
"Bah! Balderdash!" A man seated at a nearby table had finally heard enough; at this point everyone in the bar was listening intently. The man stood erect and angry. He wore a sailor's jacket and a watch cap. His dark beard was neatly trimmed. He continued: "He jes' wants you to think that it's wizardry, but I knows better. Ran into a fellow in Paris he told me the whole story."  
  
The filthy man seated with Holmes took offense at the bearded man's challenge. "Well then, if it ain't sorcery, what is it Professor?"  
  
The bearded man remained calm and took a lecturer's tone. "This Holmes is a technologist." I actually laughed at this point; however, I was able to disguise my amusement with a cough. I could not help but to laugh as the bar patrons looked at one another, trying to figure out what a technologist was. The bearded man sensed their confusion and explained: " A technologist is a master of machines. Holmes has a lot of machines that can peer into the minds of men. I heard he even has one that can travel in time."  
  
The filthy man groaned. "Now what's Balderdash?"  
  
The bearded man seemed undaunted. "How else would you explain his foresight. He knows where you'll be in the future. Him and his Chinese man servant." Note: This was the first and only time I was mistaken for Chinese. "Yeah, they travel around in time picking up criminals. He's probably in the future right now. Nabbing one of yer chums and locking him up."  
  
The bearded man's remarks set into the crowd, and seemed to tax their intellects, as the debate of magic and science whirled in their brains. No one spoke for a moment. Finally, a neat looking man in a suit stood up. I had not noticed him before. Which seemed odd because he had the look of a gentleman, contrasting greatly with our surroundings. He walked to the center of the room and cleared his throat.  
  
Then, as the crowd stood silent, the gentleman spoke. "You are all mistaken. Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a vain and pompous man, blessed with a perceptive intellect and a pension for causing trouble. If you don't believe me, I will drag his lifeless corpse in here. Proving his frailty and my superiority."  
  
Holmes screamed: "Now Watson!" But I was already moving. I retrieved my pistol from my coat pocket and smashed it into the skull of the gentleman. The man fell onto the floor unconscious. I am not known for brutality, but the immediacy of the situation demanded swift and deliberate action. We were surrounded by enemies. However, the most shocking thing happened: No one moved.  
  
Holmes stood erect and threw back the hood of his jacket. The crowd stared at him as if he was an abyss, and Holmes stared back. He allowed them a moment of silence then spoke: "None of you are even close. The truth is far more disturbing and far more deadly." I hoisted the gentleman's body and moved towards the door. Holmes followed, then turned towards the crowd before he left the door. "You are right about one thing.I am watching you."  
  
We slipped into the night. I glanced at the patrons of the pub as the door swung shut; they dared not even breathe. It took a half-hour before we were able to find a constable on that side of town. Yet, we finally found one willing to take the gentleman's unconscious body to jail. The constable was confused as to what crime the gentleman had actually committed, but at Holmes request, he was willing to incarcerate the gentleman for the night. Holmes promised the constable evidence, of the gentleman's involvement in Ms Wilson's murder, by the morrow.  
  
Holmes and I found a cab, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "What a dreadful evening Holmes. I shall be glad to return to my wife and bedchamber."  
  
"Well Watson, you can come in for Chinese tea and look at her in my magic ball if you like. And he accused me of vanity."  
  
Although he will deny it, Holmes and I shared a hearty laugh in that cab. My friend was not known for his gaiety, but the night had provided us with too much danger and humor to surpress. I wish you could have seen him laugh.  
  
Still, I hear rumors of a waterfront pub. A filthy man, a bearded man, and a gentleman share a table. The name of Sherlock Holmes is never to be uttered in their presence, and they stare at the door fearing the return of the devil. 


End file.
